Original subtitles

Are you feeling better, Hastings?

Yes.

Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.

Takes the pressure off the pancreas, you see.

Ah, the pancreas is nothing.

Of the digestive organs, the liver is the king.

Look after the liver, and life will take care of itself.

It is on, Mr. Poirot.

Thank you, Miss Lemon.

This is what you need, Hastings.

No fear. I've tasted it.

-Mr. Poirot. -Yes, Miss Lemon.

There's a lady outside.

-A client? -I don't know.

When I say "outside," I mean outside in the street.

I've been watching her from my window.

She keeps on backwards and forwards,

then stops and looks up at the building.

I'm sure she wants to come in.

Go and intercept her, Miss Lemon.

Inform her that Hercule Poirot

is done devouring the strange ladies this season.

Mr. Poirot.

To leave the pancreas alone, Hastings,

is the best advice I can give you.

And look to your diet.

What did you eat last night, huh?

Ah! Do not tell me.

You went to that Indian restaurant

you keep on telling me about, n'est-ce pas?

The Orient has much to teach us, Poirot.

Mm-hmm.

You have been warned, Hastings.

Do you know what is the most heavily taxed import in Belgium?

Rice.

The government of my country is determined to stamp it out.

I was brought up on rice -- rice pudding.

And how are you feeling, Hastings?

Well...

Yes, Hastings,

but we happen to be living in the corn country.

The Indian philosopher Rabindranath Tagore

specifically recommends rice as a cure for all known ills.

She won't come in, Mr. Poirot.

She denied wanting to see you at all at first.

Then she said she'd meet you.

Where?

Don't be nervous, madame.

You are among friends.

I may be wickedly wronging

poor Edward, though.

It's a terrible thought for a wife to have.

I've got this dreadful idea.

You suspect your husband of...

Oh, M. Poirot, I'm dreadfully afraid I'm being poisoned.

I see.

What makes you think so, madame?

I'm sick after nearly every meal,

and I get this burning pain all down here.

The doctor says it's gastritis, but it's very odd.

Whenever Edward's away for the weekend,

I'm quite all right again.

Even Freda noticed that.

-Freda? -My niece.

And then there's that tin of weed killer.

The gardener says he's never used it, but it's half empty.

You and your husband reside where, madame?

Polgarwith. It's in Cornwall.

Ah. Do you have any children?

No.

But a niece I think you said, yes?

Yes, Freda Stanton, my husband's only sister's child.

She's lived with us for the last eight years,

that is, until a week ago.

Aha. And what happened a week ago?

I don't know.

One day last week she just flared up and walked out.

She's taken rooms of her own in the town.

"Leave her to come to her senses," so Mr. Radnor says.

M. Radnor?

Oh, he's just a friend, a very pleasant young fellow.

Anything, uh, you know, between him and your niece?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Madame...

We must be brutal.

Do you know of any reason

why your husband should wish you out of the way?

Yes, I do.

There's a yellow-haired hussy that works for him.

My husband's a dentist, M. Poirot, and nothing would do,

but he must have a smart girl, as he put it,

to make his appointments and mix his fillings for him.

Go on, madame.

Well, there's talk 'round the town.

I mean, her with her bobbed hair and her white overall.

Of course he swears it's all right.

But then, he would, wouldn't he?

It makes me cold talking like this.

Alors, let us then be practical.

You'll return to Polgarwith today, yes?

Yes. There's a train at 5:00.

Tr�s bien.

Tomorrow Captain Hastings and I will follow you there.

I don't want there to be any talk.

Courage, madame.

We will be discretion itself.

You see, he was one of the Wiltshire Hastings

on his father's side.

So it was Herbert who moved the family to Cornwall.

Yes, Herbert was my father.

Who was your mother, then? Maude Hastings.

At least she wasn't Hastings till she got married.

She was Maude Willoughby.

What are you doing, Hastings?

I'm trying to get these relationships sorted out

if I'm going to pretend I'm the son

of Mrs. Pengelley's second cousin.

What do you think of this case, Hastings?

Nasty business, I'd say.

Unless Mrs. Pengelley's making the whole thing up.

Well, Mme. Pengelley did not strike me

as being the hysterical woman, Hastings.

No, if I mistake not,

we have here a very poignant human drama.

Polgarwith.

This is Polgarwith.

You see, it's very simple, Hastings.

Ordinarily a woman will accuse anyone in the world

except her husband.

She will stick her belief in him through thick and thin.

Well, this other woman complicates matters.

You mean affection may turn to hate

under the stimulus of jealousy?

Exactly.

Why, then, come to me?

To have her suspicions proved wrong

or to have them proved right?

In a town like this, Hastings,

woe betide any husband who buys a tin of weed killer.

Probably only one place

to buy something like that.

And then if his wife suffers from gastritis

and is inclined to be imaginative,

the fat is in the flames, I think.

If M. Pengelley chooses for dalliance his receptionist,

Hastings, he chooses unwisely.

It is a little too close to home.

Domestic quarters on one side and surgery on the other.

What is that, Poirot? It sounds like someone crying.

In here, Hastings.

Yes?

We wish to see Mrs. Pengelley.

You can't.

She's dead.

Dead?

Not an hour ago.

Upstairs cold.

Of what did she die?

-Are you foreign? -Belgian.

The whole world's gone mad today.

What happened?

It's not my place to say anything, and I'm not going to.

But everybody knows.

Indeed?

Didn't I see the master with me own eyes

standing just near the shelf with the weed killer

this very evening?

And didn't he jump when he turned 'round

and saw me a-watching of him?

And the missus' gruel there on the table, ready.

Not a bite more food passes my lips when I'm in this house.

Not if I dies for it.

Jessie?

Jessie?

Oh, my God, it's him.

You'll have to go.

Jessie?

Where does the doctor who attended your mistress live?

Dr. Adams -- at the other end of the High Street.

Who is it, Jessie?

It's nobody, sir.

It's just some men.

I'm very sorry

to hear of your tragic loss, M. Pengelley.

Thank you.

We'll come back some other time.

-Yes. -Thank you.

Thank you, mademoiselle.

We should have come with her yesterday, Hastings.

An imbecile! A criminal imbecile!

That's what I have been!

Oh, I boast about my little gray cells,

and now I have lost a human life?!

A life that came to me to be saved!

Damned nonsense!

Damned nonsense, every word of it.

Was I or was I not in attendance in this case?

-Indeed. -Did I or did I not say

the first day I went to see Mrs. Pengelley, gastritis?

Yes. Did I ever waver from that diagnosis?

No, I did not.

But this is undoubtedly --

This town is a hotbed of gossip.

A lot of scandal-mongering old women get together

and invent God knows what.

But the fact remains --

They read these scurrilous rags of newspapers,

and nothing will suit them better

but that someone from their town should be poisoned, too.

But Mme. Pengelley --

Why should anyone want to poison her?

Dr. Adams, will you please listen to me?

Why? I'm telling you.

It was yesterday that Mme. Pengelley came to London

in order to consult me.

She believes she was being poisoned.

Never.

Ah, Hastings, do you hear that? Now I am a liar, huh?

Dr. Adams, please, allow me.

Mme. Pengelley believed that her husband was the poisoner.

Rubbish.

I know Edward Pengelley.

Wouldn't poison his grandmother's dog.

But it is not the dog of Mme. Pengelley's grandmother

that has been poisoned!

Mme. Pengelley believed that her husband

had fallen in love with his receptionist.

Fallen in love?

Yes.

Edward Pengelley isn't the sort of man to fall in love.

We play golf together.

Never been in love in his life.

Damn fine dentist, too.

I'll be blunt with you, Mr. Poirot.

We in Polgarwith don't need you outsiders coming in

spreading your tittle-tattle.

All I am trying to tell you, M. Doctor,

is what Mme. Pengelley thought.

Well, if she thought that, she must have gone mad.

She should have come to see me. I'd have told her.

And had all her fears ridiculed?

Ridiculed? Certainly not.

I've got an open mind, I hope.

"Fall in love?

Edward Pengelley's not the sort of man to fall in love."

He is as obstinate as a pig, that one.

He says it is gastritis, therefore it is gastritis.

"Did I waver from that diagnosis? Never."

A doctor who lacks doubt is not a doctor.

He's an executioner.

Poor Mme. Pengelley, surrounded by such closed minds.

We owe it to her, Hastings, to unmask her murderer.

Well, let's meet the yellow-haired hussy, eh?

What is this "hussy," Hastings?

Mm.

It means the sort of girl who's sort of...

no better than she ought to be kind of thing.

-No better than... -That's it.

I say.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Yes, sir?

Oh. Right.

Look, uh, I'm the second cousin of, uh...

No.

Good morning.

Look here. I've got a toothache.

-Ow. It -- It... -There's been a bereavement.

Um, Mr. Pengelley isn't in the surgery today.

Ah, right.

Well, I better come back some other time, shall I?

It is all right. I will look after him.

Come along, Hastings.

What?

Oh. Right.

I'll come back next week, then.

What a stunner, Poirot.

You must not excite yourself, Hastings.

Good morning.

And what do you think of our little town?

It is charming, madame.

I hope you find it interesting enough.

Indeed I do.

Miss Stanton, dear, a gentleman to see you.

Who are you?

Hercule Poirot. And you?

Jacob Radnor.

Oh, poor Auntie.

Of course, it was all nonsense,

her thinking Uncle Edward was poisoning her.

It's terribly sad.

I've been wishing all morning

I'd been kinder and more patient.

Well, these regrets are all too common, mademoiselle.

But one must move on.

I know. But I've got a sharp temper.

After all, it was only silliness on Auntie's part.

You stood a great deal, Freda.

What was the actual cause of your disagreement, mademoiselle?

Look, I'll be running along.

I'll see you this evening, eh?

Goodbye, gentlemen.

Thank you.

You are a fianc�e to M. Radnor. Is that not so?

As a matter of fact, yes.

Uh-huh.

How did you know?

Well, one does not have to be

the greatest detective in the world to notice it.

Oh, I see.

That was the whole trouble, actually, with Auntie.

She did not approve of the match for you?

It wasn't that so much.

-But you see... -Yes?

It seems rather a horrid thing to say about her now...

now she's dead.

But you'll never understand unless I tell you.

Well...

Auntie was...

She was absolutely infatuated with Jacob.

Jacob? Jacob Radnor, you mean?

Yes.

Yes, I know.

I mean, she was over 50, and he's not 30 yet.

But there it was.

She was silly about him.

I can see it would have made things a dash difficult.

Well, I just had to tell her in the end.

I had to say it was me Jacob was after.

Well, she carried on most dreadfully.

She wouldn't believe a word of it

and was so rude and insulting, I lost my temper, I'm afraid.

I wish I hadn't.

And so you left.

Yes.

So I should jolly well think.

Goodbye. Thank you very much, Miss Stanton.

You've been most helpful.

I hope I've put your mind at rest. That's all.

Indeed.

"Mind at rest," Hastings.

Well, I thought it all seemed quite, you know...

You know?

I'm not surprised she had gastritis.

Comment?

Well, if she's gonna run around after chaps half her age --

Mr. Poirot.

Hmm? Ah, hello again, M. Radnor.

I wonder if I might have a word with you.

I can pretty well guess what Freda has been telling you.

Indeed.

It was all really unfortunate.

At first I was quite pleased.

I imagined the old woman was helping things along with Freda.

And then it turned out --

Well, the whole thing was absurd and extremely unpleasant.

This is my little place.

Oh, is this your shop?

It's not bad, is it?

After you, gentlemen.

-Thank you. -Hmm.

-Oh, good morning, gentlemen. -Good morning.

Oh, good morning, Mr. Radnor.

It's all right, Mr. Newsome.

These gentlemen are with me.

You can go and have your dinner if you like.

Thank you, sir.

Well, this is most impressive, M. Radnor.

We try to liven Polgarwith up a bit --

new fashions, better quality.

When are you and Mademoiselle Stanton going to get married?

Soon, I hope.

Look, Mr. Poirot, can I speak freely?

Of course.

I'm going to be candid with you.

Excellent.

I know a bit more than Freda does, you see.

Indeed?

She believes her uncle to be innocent.

And you don't?

I'm not so sure as all that.

I can tell you one thing, though.

I'm going to keep my mouth shut about what I do know,

let sleeping dogs lie.

I don't want my wife's uncle tried and hanged for murder.

Why do you tell me this, monsieur?

Because I've heard of you, and I know you're a clever man.

It's quite possible you might ferret out a case against him.

But I put it to you. What good is that?

The poor woman is past help, isn't she?

And she'd be the last person to want a scandal.

You are probably right.

So you want me to hush it up?

Well, I admit I'm being selfish about it.

I'm building up a good little business here.

You don't know what these small towns are like.

Most of us are selfish, M. Radnor.

Not all of us admit it so freely.

Yes, I will do what you ask,

but I tell you frankly you will not succeed in hushing it up.

Why not?

Vox populi, M. Radnor.

That is why.

The voice of the people.

Earth to earth.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

In sure and certain hope of the resurrection

to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ,

who shall change our vile body

that it may be like unto His glorious body

according to the mighty working...

I suppose we can accept

this rather extraordinary story about Radnor and Mrs. Pengelley.

But yes.

Must have been dashed embarrassing for him.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps he found it a little flattering, huh?

Flattering?

She was old enough to be his mother.

Well, almost.

Forgive us our trespasses

as we forgive them that trespass against us,

and lead us not into temptation...

Mme. Pengelley was an estimable and charming lady.

Thank you, Mr. Poirot.

If only I'd listened to her.

I assumed it was some minor digestive disorder.

-Terrible business. -Sandwich, Captain Hastings?

Thank you. Terrible business.

Gastritis. Gastritis pure and simple.

No, no.

If you don't mind, Mr. Pengelley,

I'd like to read the will.

I have to get back to the office before midday.

Yes, yes, by all means.

There are no secrets.

It's quite straightforward, really.

After the usual preamble,

Mrs. Pengelley leaves �2,000 in trust

for her niece Miss Freda Stanton until she's 40.

The residue of her estate,

which amounts to some �20,000 in government bonds,

she leaves to her husband, Edward Pengelley.

That's all.

If you'll excuse us.

Thank you

I think I should take her home.

It is all very interesting,

is it not, Hastings?

Interesting? Seems to be rather sordid and unpleasant.

Hardly seems any mystery about it.

I agree. There is no mystery whatever.

Pengelley had three motives for murder --

money, he was in love with his assistant,

Mrs. Pengelley was apparently in love with Radnor,

although I must say I find that pretty hard to believe.

Ah, Hastings, you admire les femmes, huh?

You prostrate yourself before all who are good-looking.

Look how you were struck all over pale

by that yellow-haired hussy.

Quite untrue.

But psychologically, you know nothing whatever about them.

Ah, well, there you are. You see, that just shows.

Women are always saying

I understand them rather too well, frankly.

Really, Hastings? I should like to hear them say so myself.

No, no, no, mon ami.

You listen to Poirot, and you shall learn.

In the autumn of a woman's life, Hastings,

there comes always one mad moment

when she longs for romance, for adventure before it is too late,

even if she is the wife of a respectable dentist

in a country town.

And you think that --

A clever man might take advantage of such a moment?

I'd hardly call Pengelley so clever.

He seems to have got the whole town talking.

You know, Hastings, what I find curious

is that the only two men who know anything about the case,

they both want to hush it up.

What, Radnor and the doctor, you mean?

I don't see what that's got to do with it.

Well, before your bank holiday in August, Hastings,

we shall see M. Pengelley in the dock.

Good thing, too.

And it will be our job to save him from the gallows.

All right, lads, pick 'em up.

Ready?

One, two, three, heave.

Two heads and a tail.

Two yins and a yang. Right.

It's number 15.

I don't understand this.

You sure you were thinking about Poirot?

His hexagraphs come out as Chien.

What's that mean?

Modesty.

"Superior man who carries things through without vanity.

Doesn't sound like Mr. Poirot.

What are you doing, Hastings?

-Nothing. -The I Ching, actually.

-The "I"? -I Ching.

It's an ancient Chinese oracle.

We were foretelling your future.

Most amusing.

Your hexagram comes out as modesty.

Oh?

That is most apt. Well, well.

Yes, but it's the lines that are important.

You see, your second line says,

"10 pairs of tortoises cannot oppose him.

The man in the scarlet knee bands is coming."

Tortoises? Knee bands?

You see, the tortoise is considered a magical animal.

It means you're going to be so successful

that not even magic can stop you.

Hastings I have heard enough of this nonsense.

I can foretell the future better than any Chinese oracle,

as you will see if you look in this newspaper.

"Herr Hitler's speech, full text"?

Further down the page.

Oh, "Cornish mystery.

Mrs. Pengelley exhumed."

How long did I say, Hastings?

Say?

I said, did I not,

that we should see M. Pengelley in the dock.

Before August bank holiday.

And when is the August bank holiday, Hastings?

Two weeks on Monday.

Pr�cis�ment.

Here he comes.

-He's done nothing. -Now, now.

No, you're wrong.

People tell lies! They tell terrible lies!

He's innocent, I tell you!

He's innocent!

"Gossip in Polgarwith became intense

when Edward Pengelley announced his engagement

to his 25-year-old receptionist, Miss Edwina Marks,

three weeks ago."

Hmm.

What did I tell you, Hastings? The voice of the people.

Hastings, have you finished your meditation?

Hastings?

And what was the reason for your visit?

No particular reason.

I often dropped in to see them. We were friends.

Did you see Mrs. Pengelley on this occasion?

No, she was in bed, I was told.

She had her digestive trouble again.

She had this digestive trouble quite regularly.

Not regularly, no.

But she'd been suffering for some time with it.

You saw the accused?

Yes.

What was he doing?

He was in the kitchen preparing some gruel

to take up to his wife.

Now, what I want you to tell the court

is exactly what met your eyes

when you went through that door into the kitchen.

Well, I saw Mr. Pengelley.

He had his back to me.

He was putting a tin up on a shelf.

There was a tray with a bowl of gruel on it

on the kitchen table.

One moment, Mr. Radnor.

This tin that Mr. Pengelley was replacing --

Can you tell us what was in it?

No.

Can you describe it to us?

It was a bit bigger than a cocoa tin.

It was yellow with black printing on it,

or perhaps dark blue.

Could we see Exhibit "D," please?

This tin, Mr. Radnor?

Yes.

Oh, no.

Can't I have just one little murder case to myself?

Bonjour, Chief Inspector.

We were on this case long before you were.

Mmm. Good ham.

Mm, I am glad.

Mme. Pengelley came to me

because she thought she was being poisoned.

She was right.

Poirot said Pengelley would be in the dock

before August bank holiday.

So, what are you here for?

To rescue him.

Oh, no.

He had the means to do it -- the weed killer.

He had the opportunity to do it.

He lived in the same house and prepared some of her meals.

He had the motive to do it.

For the yellow-haired hussy

who has to be no better than she ought, huh?

And yet, Inspector, he did not do it.

I can name six people who had a motive to kill Mme. Pengelley.

What about Mlle. Stanton, for instance?

She inherits under her aunt's will.

Don't spoil it, Poirot.

This is a little holiday for me.

It's an open-and-shut case.

Everyone knows Pengelley did it.

Everyone does not use their gray cells, I think.

You think I should talk to the niece again?

Certainly.

The symptoms of gastritis

are identical to the symptoms of arsenic poisoning.

That is not what the pathologist from the home office said,

Dr. Adams.

No, no, no. I'm telling you.

The symptoms of gastritis

are identical to the symptoms of arsenic poisoning.

That's why I made the diagnosis that I did.

Well, I don't see what's gonna save him.

Poirot will save him.

With the help of the vox populi, of course.

Well, the vox populi seems quite certain Pengelley did it,

if you ask me.

Pr�cis�ment. You have now grasped the nub of the matter.

Mr. Poirot?

Ah, M. Radnor.

Hello.

Captain Hastings.

This is a sad business.

-Ah. -The trial, yes.

I just think it is.

Do you see any chance of him getting off?

Well, he has reserved his defense and he...

may have something up his sleeve, as you English say.

M. Radnor, would you care to join Captain Hastings and me

for a drink at the hotel?

Well, thank you.

Then please do join us, huh?

We can go to my room, M. Radnor,

where we can discuss the intricacies of this case, no?

Splendid.

Ah, please, sit down, M. Radnor.

-Thank you. -Hastings, be so kind

as to offer our friend something to drink.

-Sherry? -Please.

Business is good, Mr. Radnor?

Excellent, thank you, yes.

I've taken over the shop next door to add to mine.

Ah. Bien.

It is, uh, Jacob, n'est-ce pas?

I'm sorry?

Jacob Radnor?

Yes.

Jacob...

...Radnor.

Of 21 Fourth Street, yes?

What are you doing?

Well, Captain Hastings and I

are very experienced, M. Radnor, in matters of these kind,

and we both feel that our friend M. Pengelley

has one loophole of escape.

Loophole?

What loophole has he got?

That you should sign...

...this little piece of paper.

What is it?

A confession that you murdered Mme. Pengelley.

You must be mad.

No, no, no, my friend. I am not mad.

Mme. Pengelley was a lady very well-to-do,

but the small allowance she made to her niece

was not sufficient for your ambitious schemes.

No.

You must get rid of both her and her husband,

and then all of the money would go to Mlle. Stanton, no?

You yourself decide to murder Mme. Pengelley

and let her husband hang for the crime.

I'm not gonna stay here

-and listen to this. -Hastings.

You've got no right to keep me here.

Nevertheless, you will stay.

You set about your task very cleverly, M. Radnor.

You made love to that plain, middle-aged woman.

You implanted into her mind

doubts about the fidelity of her husband.

You introduced arsenic into her food,

being very careful never to do so while her husband was away.

You were in the house

while her husband was preparing the gruel for his wife,

and you introduced the fatal dose.

The rest is easy.

Very interesting.

Very ingenious.

But why do you tell me this?

Because, M. Radnor, I represent...

No, not the law.

I represent...

...Mme. Pengelley.

And it is for her sake

that I'm going to give you the chance to escape.

-Now, look -- -You sign that piece of paper,

and I will give you 24 hours' start, M. Radnor.

24 hours

before I place this matter into the hands of the police.

You can't get away, Radnor.

Look out of that window.

Those two men have orders not to lose sight of you.

Damn you!

You've only got one chance, Radnor.

What guarantee have I got?

None.

But you will surely hang if you do not sign.

All right.

Damn you!

Shall I give them the signal, Poirot, to let him pass?

Certainement.

You have 24 hours, M. Radnor.

I'll get back at you, Poirot, one day.

I think not, my friend.

In two days, you will be in the prison cell.

I'm not sure we should have let him go, you know, Poirot.

You're letting a dangerous criminal escape

out of sheer sentiment.

No, Hastings.

That was not sentiment.

That was realism.

We have no shadow of proof against him.

The only chance was to frighten him into confession.

Hastings, those two men of yours...

who are they?

I haven't the foggiest idea.

I just noticed them standing there when we came in.

But that is sheer brilliance.

Oh. Well.

Your peculiar Oriental practices which I tease you about

are obviously working wonders on your gray cells.

Maybe it's the rice.

I hope not, Hastings.

Where are we going?

To place this into the hands of the proper authorities.

But that's not for 24 hours.

Hastings, did you really believe

that I would let a cold-blooded murderer get off Scottish free?

Well, no, but...

Hastings, I do not understand you.

You object if I let him off.

You object if I do not let him off.

That very day I see it, sir.

I see his hand hovering over the missus' gruel, sir.

Whose hand?

Well, his, sir.

The master's, sir.

And was there something in that hand, Miss Dawlish?

Yes, sir.

There was, sir.

Weed killer, sir.

When you say "weed killer," Miss Dawlish...

This is most extraordinary.

Have you notified the police?

No, we thought it would come better from you.

Good.

Meanwhile I'll ask that the trial is at least adjourned.

There is just one thing.

We did promise Mr. Radnor that we'd give him a 24-hour start.

Haven't got many of them in Peckham.

If Edward Pengelley

had really murdered his wife, Hastings,

guilt would have made him sensitive

to what people would say

if he announced his engagement to Mlle. Marks.

No, no, no, Hastings, the guilty person would have waited

and quietly slipped out of Cornwall forever

before doing such a thing.

Well, there's Japp.

You make them yourself?

I don't know what you're gonna tell him.

Nothing at all, Hastings.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news.

He will learn soon enough that his open-and-shut case

has the broken hinges.

Hey, Poirot. Come and try one of these.

My dear Japp.

Poirot, Hastings.

Sure enough miss these when I get back to London.

You still poking about in my murder?

Ah, no, no, no, no, no, Chief Inspector.

Captain Hastings and I are retiring from the field.

Oh? Why?

Well, sometimes it is braver to admit defeat, huh,

than to battle on with no hope of success

against the superior forces.

Oh, yes. So Pengelley's gonna swing

in spite of all your efforts?

Well...

If we are to catch the next train,

we must tear ourselves away.

Captain Hastings is going to treat me to dinner

at the most excellent restaurant he has discovered

which serves the Indian food.

It is to this food that Captain Hastings attributes

the improvement of his gray cells.

Indian? What, these hot curries and things?

-Yes. -Rather you than me, Poirot.

Well, au revoir, Inspector.

Make haste, my friend.

I do not wish to be visible when Inspector Japp discovers

he has to chase after M. Radnor.

Too late.

Sir! Sir!

The inspector says, "Can you come, please, sir?"

The trial's been adjourned.

Adjourned? What for?

Mr. Radnor's confessed, sir.

-Confessed? -To the murder.

He confessed to that French gent in writing!

Poirot!